


BioShock: Ineffable

by infinitesnow



Category: BioShock Infinite, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Dynamics, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Other, ineffable dudes being ineffable dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitesnow/pseuds/infinitesnow
Summary: "We’ve gotten the three of us into this mess - it’s only right that we fix it.”“Listen to you, the three of us.” Crowley snorted. “You say that as if we’re all on the same side.”“Right now, we are.”Now the story of an immortal family who broke all the rules, and the one daughter who had to keep them all together.





	1. Eden Probably Shouldn't Be A Place In Maine

Sleep to a demon is not dissimilar to a human’s way of sleeping, if that particular human did not sleep and instead chose to belligerently wear their eye mask for eight hours a night with their eyes wide open beneath it, checking the light peering in by the bridge of the nose to see if the sun had come out yet. This is what Crowley elected to do for a time, under the pretense of being "tired" when he knew perfectly well that exhaustion was a specifically crafted handicap for mortals.

It might have been for nearly eighty years. It **would** have been. But things do happen.

Instead, it was 1910, and someone had come to get Crowley out of bed after nearly fifty.

"Crowley?" He could hear something from the other side of the wood, someone terribly familiar in the most irritating and yet most welcome of ways. "Crowley, I  _ know _ this is your flat. Are you in?"

Part of Crowley, the more demon-y part, was quite content to make his uninvited visitor bumble about the big, empty space until he became irritable, but the other part of him, without really thinking over it, started loudly shifting awake.

"Crow-...oh, for Heaven’s sakes…" All Crowley had done was kick open the door, but that was a matter of perspective; anyone watching him do so would not have seen it opening out as much as opening  _ up _ . A pair of long, gangly legs popped out first, dangling over the wooden frame as he sat up in his bed - though it really wasn’t a bed. "A coffin is a bit  _ much _ even for you, isn’t it?"

"Too bloody bright in here," Crowley grumbled, even though he was sleeping in the darkest room and every window had the drapes drawn shut. "Don’t know why they haven’t made more beds with lids on, if you ask me."

"Yes, but that doesn’t look terribly comfortable. Are your knees folded in there while you’re sleeping?"

He began the arduous task of pushing himself out, looking a bit like a crab trying to learn how to walk on hind legs. "So what if they are? Babies do it, don’t they?"

Watching Crowley try and clamber out of his rather paltry coffin was a man dressed in white, not looking much different at all from the last time Crowley had seen him. Muttonchops were gone: not to be missed, Crowley noted. "Not in wooden boxes, they don’t."

"Well, if you’ve come to criticize my sleeping habits, I think you’ve more than got the point across." He was finally standing erect, cracking his back for the sake of making the noise.

"What you do in the privacy of your own home isn’t my concern, Crowley. I have business to discuss with you, serious business." Aziraphale was already walking out of Crowley’s viewing parlour, nearly too briskly to follow.

Crowley realized how hastily he was throwing on his robe, letting his sash fall over his hips. "Oooh, serious business. No fraternizing for the two of us today, then?"

" _Fraternizing?_ " For the first time since he’d gotten there, the angel turned to look at him directly, something like frustration transforming into recollection in his eyes, but it vanished quickly. "I’m here doing my job, nothing more."

"Alright, then, we’re working - so what’s the great ordeal on your end?"

"It’s not  _ my _ end." Aziraphale was reaching into his pocket, waiting for Crowley to take a seat at his desk. "It’s  _ you _ I want to explain this to me." He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, pushing it across the marble.

" _Concerning Elizabeth_ \- wait, this is your handwriting."

"Don’t you think I know that? For goodness sakes, Crowley, just read it."

Crowley’s eyes scanned over the parchment. "What are you, a novelist now? Not terrible, honestly."

"I didn’t write this."

"You didn’t -  _ you _ didn’t write…."

Aziraphale seemed quite put out, already in record time for any of their conversations. "Oh, don’t fool around with me, Crowley. Did you or one of yours forge this?"

"When would I have the time to write funny notes in  _ your _ handwriting, angel? I’ve been extremely busy."

"Oh, I can _see_ that."

"None of this looks familiar, anyways. Flying city, time doors - who’s Elizabeth? New friend, eh?"

"I don’t  _ know _ , I…look, are you certain this has nothing to do with your people?"

“Can’t say for sure, but there wasn’t any talk of funny business in America last I heard.” He slid the paper back towards Aziraphale. “And you honestly don’t have any clue?"

"Without a doubt," the angel said. "You were the first person I thought to ask once I found it."

"Where was that?"

"In…in my desk. Buried in a drawer."

Crowley rolled his eyes, propping his legs up over the arm of his chair. "So you got a little tipsy, wrote up a funny story about a great metal bird, and then lost it for a while. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, certainly nothing to do with me."

"I would have thought the same, but I did a little research. If nothing else, the floating city seems to be very real, unfortunately."

"No kidding?"

"Not at all. It wasn’t widely reported in the papers, probably to avoid a panic, but there were some articles mentioning an aerial attack on China in 1901."

"1901? What year is it now?"

"1910, but that’s beside the point - anyhow, the city was apparently deployed to diffuse an American hostage situation, but opened fire on Chinese civilians instead."

"Well, there you go. Sounds like my side.”

Looking exasperated, Aziraphale leaned against the desk, wringing his hands. "That’s just it; it seems to be operating under some pretense of Heavenly influence. Their spiritual leader initially gathered them by preaching about visions sent by the 'Archangel Columbia'."

"Archangel Columbia?" Crowley didn’t pretend to remember every minor angel from his time in Heaven, but an archangel should have been easy to recall immediately. "Have you been adding new ones?"

"You can’t 'add' new angels, Crowley."

"If you can get rid of angels, you can add them, can’t you? Seems easy."

There is a reason that Hell is intolerably overcrowded with the damnable and malcontent, and Heaven a bit more spacious, but that wasn’t the conversation Aziraphale wanted to have. "The point is, there’s quite a bit going on that seems as if it’s from my end, too. Demons don’t pretend to be angels - "

" - that you know of - "

" - they sneak about in the dark, coercing humans into accepting evil into their hearts. He **could** be a con artist, but this is also quite a lot of work to go through for one con."

" _Mh_ , I see your point," Crowley said, though he was trying very hard not to snidely mock Aziraphale’s rather stuffy interpretation of the methods of Satan’s army. "It’s all a bit melodramatic for any of my people. Besides, what do humans need a whole town airborne for if they haven’t even been able to make themselves fly yet?"

Aziraphale sighed, eyes drifting around Crowley’s empty apartment as he avoided asking the question he clearly had to get around to sooner or later.

"You know," Crowley started, before pausing to yawn pointedly, "a flying city  _ would _ be the kind of thing they’d ask us to look into, wouldn’t it? Whichever side’s behind it, it stands to reason we’d  _ both _ have good cause to go up and investigate ourselves."

"Well, of course that seems like it would be the best idea; but they might get suspicious if I go overseas without any notice - "

"Then you give them some. If they haven’t told you not to interfere, can’t care that much, can they?" Demons didn't need caffeine, but in Crowley's particular case, this sort of thing was the closest equivalent. "Don’t pretend you wouldn’t like to go and see something as mad as that, anyway. You can’t get fine dining above the clouds, not even in Heaven."

"I suppose they can’t be cross with me, if it were really in their best interest." Aziraphale was still trying to maintain that air of professionalism that was so absent from his personage, no matter how hard he tried, and yet already he couldn’t even keep the corner of his lips from perking upwards. "You understand that we're going to figure _this_ out," he said, shaking his note in his hand. "It's purely business."

“Maybe so, but the way I see it, figuring out that list might be more of a perk than a necessity.”

"It  _ is _ a necessity, Crowley."

"Then," he said, wondering if any of the silly hats he owned were still appropriate for the time, "there’s no reason we ought not go."

Crowley later wondered if he would have been so eager to go on a westward holiday with Aziraphale if they hadn’t had a bitter fallout decades prior. Aziraphale would consider how things could have turned out if he had remained steadfast in his dedication to his Heavenly work, and gone to sort the business in Columbia out himself. It could have gone either way - it may have, in some other time, some other place.

After all, things do happen.

“You’re  _ late _ .”

“You’re the one who insisted on traveling separately.”

“I did,” said Aziraphale, “but I assumed you took it to mean that we’d be separate on the same boat, much how we’re traveling separately to the same city.”

“Well, we weren’t, and now you’ve had a free holiday in Maine for two additional days, so you’re welcome. Lobster alright?” Crowley was still shaking the rain off his shoulders after rushing into the soggy little restaurant, taking a brief look down, then up, before claiming the seat opposite Aziraphale.

Aziraphale grimaced. “Very good lobster, but poorly prepared. There’s entirely too much pepper.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.”

“Yes, quite. Anyways, it’s fortunate you’ve made it - I have someone meeting me back at the dock in two hours. Says he knows how to reach the city.”

“You were going to leave without me?”

“ _ They _ might start asking questions if I’m hanging around the same port for too long: I would have left instructions to meet me, you know.”

“Instructions with whom, may I ask?”

“Instructions with whosoever you happened to encounter first - I had it all planned out in case you were still running behind.” Fifty years was not a terribly long time when you had spent thousands of years knowing a person, but it  _ was _ a long time to spend without properly patching things up after a terse and slightly revealing conversation. He couldn’t help but wish he had reunited with Crowley under less pressing circumstances, when he wasn’t so focused on his work and had more time to try and be amiable with him again. There were moments every five years or so when Aziraphale had wanted to do the right thing and apologize, until he remembered that Crowley had simply fallen off the map and stayed there for decades, and then he considered that he might only make things worse.

He did not know why it was that he had felt that way more frequently for the 17 years before he found the note buried in his desk.

“In any case,” said Aziraphale, “you’ve come just in time. Once we’re there, we’ll get our bearings, try to piece some of the stranger aspects of the list together - ”

“ - meet Elizabeth?”

“For the last time, Crowley, I don’t  _ know _ an Elizabeth.”

“She’s on the list - ”

“Which I didn’t write.”

“- in your handwriting.”

“We’re going to get to the bottom of it and then go  _ home _ . Hopefully, this matter won’t have to go higher up, and we’ll get back to our own business.” He took a bite of lobster to punctuate his point, trying to ignore the irritating  _ tingle _ in his mouth from all the pepper.

“Well, may as well enjoy it while it lasts. Personally, I’m looking forward to seeing this giant bird you’ve written about - ”

“The Songbird? Oh, I don’t like one bit of it; a great metal monster like that can’t be good for anything besides chaos and mayhem.”

“See, there’s my appeal. Chaos, mayhem, big on that. Besides, if the city really  _ is _ my people, it may come in handy for you to smash up the place or something.”

“I don’t know - I’d rather not get into any sort of ‘ _Sodom and Gomorrah_ ’ type business up there. It seems so excessive.”

“Don’t rule it out, is all I’m saying.”

The hours rolled on as quickly as the rain washed over the port, and soon Crowley was making the acquaintance of a man in a brown raincoat who seemed to be adamantly against revealing his own name, but was more than happy to bring two strangers to a lighthouse in the middle of a storm.

“The lighthouse keeper’s a religious nut,” he shouted, rowing the boat with his back hunched over. “You’ll wanna make sure you don’t make any sudden movements around him - he’s paranoid as all get out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that anyone can be  _ too _ religious,” Aziraphale attempted to say, though he was having some trouble being steadfast and moral when they were rocking back and forth so roughly. “Belief is a powerful and wonderful thing, you know.”

“Come back and let me know how you feel once you’ve met the fellow. Personally, I think he’s a crazy drunk - always going on about the end of days, fire and brimstone, nonsense like that: he’s got flares, if you need someone to get you fast.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Crowley said, with far less trouble than either of the other two were having.

“Right - the city. Look, not to sound dreary, but are either of you gentlemen armed?”

Both looked for the weaponry they weren’t aware they were meant to have, but the sailor had already taken their silence for a ‘no’. “Well, you’re braver than I am. Or stupider.”

The lighthouse had emerged through the fog before they could reevaluate the decisions that led them to this point, and they clambered up onto the dock with a few mumbled ‘thank yous’ and ‘good-byes’ before the boat disappeared back into the storm.

“D’you think they’d ask questions down there if I were to get discorporated only a couple days after waking up? Nah, I’m sure they wouldn’t care.” Crowley looked up towards the top of the lighthouse, finally wiping the rain off his sunglasses - there was no indication it was anything other than completely ordinary.

“We’ll just have to be very careful. I’ll try talking to him first, make him comfortable…and then maybe he won’t try to kill us.” Aziraphale was straightening out his coat, walking up the stairs to the large wooden doors at the bottom of the tower.

“Alright, then, angel, lead the way.” Crowley followed, but came to stop a few feet back. Aziraphale knocked on the door, putting on the exact kind of uncomfortable smile that says ‘I would like very much not to be killed today, please.’

From inside emerged an unkempt, sleepy sort of man, though unarmed, much to the relief of both angel and demon. “Hello, dear boy - sorry to be a bother this late in the afternoon, but we’ve been told we’d be able to find passage to the floating city from here.”

The lighthouse keeper snorted. “British? What interest have you in Columbia?”

“We’re very much in support of it.” Aziraphale said.

“Especially after the business in China.” Crowley added.

“For  _ religious _ reasons.” After a moment of silence, Aziraphale put the smile back on.

“And you believe in the word of God? In the word of our Prophet?”

“Oh, we love the Prophet. Big fans of his work. Actually hoping to bring some back overseas, if they'll take to it.” Crowley smirked, and for a moment Aziraphale wondered if they paid attention to who was nearby when you were discorporated by a crazy man in a lighthouse.

The keeper sniffed again, but opened the door a little wider. “You’re in luck, brother. City’s taking off towards New York in an hour - we’ll have plenty of time to send you and your compatriot here up.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.” Aziraphale entered the lighthouse, Crowley still trailing behind. It was a damp, dim sort of place, with a cross-stitch at the front of the room sitting over a bowl of water, reading;

OF THY SINS

SHALL I WASH THEE

“Baptismal?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale’s glance snapped to him with no sign of departing.

“ _ Symbolic _ , the prophet says. Don’t you worry, the baptism proper is overhead.” The keeper moved to lead them up the stairs, not noticing the very severe conversation taking place behind him.

“Crowley, if this has all been an elaborate ploy to get your hands on -”

“ - hey,  _ you _ woke  _ me _ up, remember? I don’t know if  _ any _ of this city is actually holy, much less their reservoir.”

“Yes, but if you’ve been feigning interest in order to -”

“Oh, you’re giving me far too much credit here, angel, I haven’t been awake long enough to come up with a plan that good.” Crowley took the lead, leaving Aziraphale to sputter and huff behind him. They followed the keeper up the tower, noticing that at the foot of each flight of stairs leading to the next floor was placed another cross stitch, reading one after the other;

FROM SODOM

SHALL I LEAD THEE

TO THINE OWN LAND

SHALL I TAKE THEE

IN NEW EDEN SOIL

SHALL I PLANT THEE

“So no new archangels, but we’ve got a new Eden now?” Crowley whispered, and though Aziraphale scoffed, his eyes were narrowed as they passed the last cross-stitch.

The lighthouse keeper led them to the lamp, but there was a strange accoutrement on the glass guarding it; a trio of bells each marked with a symbol, overlooked by a silver, winged figure who, Aziraphale noticed, looked bizarrely similar to George Washington. He rang the bells in particular order, then stood at attention and waited.

Before either of the two could ask what purpose the bells served, or why there seemed to be no going-up mechanism, something from above the thick cloud cover responded with a deep, blaring horn mimicking the chiming of the golden bells: red light illuminated the ocean in rays, brightening with each drone, with such ferocity that both angel and demon nearly jumped out of their skins. Slowly, deliberately, the horns repeated the call again, and the lighthouse began to change. The lamp was raised from its place: where it once sat was a chair, sleek and metal, with rich velvet cushions on the back and seat.

“Alright, gentlemen, one at a time.” The keeper stepped back, leaving the two of them to glance at the chair uncertainly.

“Perhaps it’s best if  _ I _ were to go first,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you for your assistance, sir, it’s been a pleasure - see you in a bit, Crowley.”

He stepped up to the chair, dusted off his coat, and sat down with the faintest air of caution. Immediately, his hands were restrained on each arm, and great metal walls came from all sides to close him in. Aziraphale attempted to shout something along the lines of “I’m alright, don’t panic,” (and indeed, Crowley looked quite a bit panicked) but the speaker reading off the countdown was popping and crackling, and his chair had been tilted downwards towards the rockets while something clicked into place, before being sat up again and forced to stare through the small window, the ship rattling and shaking violently -

They were ascending before he even realized they had reached  _ one _ .

Aziraphale wasn’t afraid of heights - though it had been a while since he’d had need of his wings, and he hoped that he wouldn't need them anytime soon - but in a device this rickety shooting up into stormy weather, one couldn’t help but fear that something, or a great many things, might go wrong. The metallic voice kept droning on, and his head was starting to ache terribly, and they were reaching such an altitude that he thought he could break through the floor of Head Office and have to explain to the Archangel Michael why he was strapped to a rocket launching out of Maine -

“ _ Hallelujah _ .”

The sky broke open, the sun glared through the glass, and Aziraphale was being welcomed to the horizon by a giant golden angel, arms outstretched to accept him. The clouds were only dark on the underside: above them, there was a softening twilight pink, with splendid purples and oranges illuminating the brick buildings while the light dipped under the ocean below. It was more color than Heaven ever had - and Heaven was capable of _so much_ color, colors the mortal eye would be unable to register, that it simply didn't ever show. The rocket was gently floating down now, past bridges and apartments, rails connecting neighborhoods across the parted clouds, a poster with the face of their prophet. As it landed, and the rocket descended into darkness, he could see his reflection smiling; and what _happiness_ had set it alight, to see the earth as he always saw it in his mind's eye, just for a moment in time.

He wouldn't discuss it many times after, but he always remembered that moment, no matter what came next, somewhat fondly.


	2. Columbia or Bust

The wall of the rocket facing Crowley fell to let him pass into the city, and he noticed it immediately - the floor was completely flooded.

Holy water was unspeakable to most demons, but Crowley, well, he had his reasons for wanting to get his hands on it; intuition, perhaps, or the occult equivalent. Now, if the ceiling caved in a church during a rainstorm, he didn’t know if that rain was then consecrated, but he knew that places operating under the vaguest pretense of holiness usually found a way to get their hands on it, or produce it. And he could certainly _hear_ the Almighty, from somewhere distant - something like a hymn.

Crowley checked the soles of his shoes for any tears or holes (they had been caked in dust for a few decades, after all), and upon finding none, slowly crept down the exit ramp of the rocket. His left foot hit the floor with a modest  _ splish _ : either shoes being worn by a demon weren’t susceptible to holy water, or this water wasn’t holy at all. Still trying to avoid kicking up too much, he stiffly stepped out and took stock of his surroundings.

Greeting those who had come from the bottom was a stained glass portrait of a severe, bearded man pointing towards the floating city, sitting atop the clouds and framed by the sun. Around him fawned a crowd of American families, hands clasped in prayer (if not holding babies). Below the portrait were candles all along the water, leading to a set of stairs down to a statue: not of the Crucifixion, or the Nativity, or even an ordinary statue of Jesus Christ, but of the same stern old man, with a stone banner over his head reading -

THE SEED OF THE PROPHET SHALL SIT THE THRONE

AND DROWN IN FLAME THE MOUNTAINS OF MAN

His palms were open, leading to rooms on either side: in one, there was a window depicting a woman in blue, flanked by two white statues of her in reverent prayer. In the opposite, the window showed the bearded man and the holy lady holding a child, reaching up with divine wisdom in its eyes - or, perhaps, a need to figure out whether or not it was being carried by Santa Claus. Crowley saw the pues in front of each window, and realized that the water couldn’t be holy: if his feet weren’t burning, he wasn’t on consecrated ground, anyways.

Shame - he was close to miracling himself a bottle.

Past the foreboding statue was a flight of stairs, spiraling down into a walkway overlooked by stone angels and illuminated by more candles, with a glint of sunlight at the end of the hall. There were zealots praying knee-deep in the water, whispering reverently to deities Crowley might have known at one point or another, but he couldn’t make out specific names. He could see Aziraphale’s earlier point as he walked under the stone angels, heralding the arrival of sheep to their flock: this was _absurdly_ melodramatic for any of Hell’s work.

“Do we trust the will of man? Do we trust the law of the land? Do we, my friends, trust the word of the sinner, and cast ourselves deeper into sin?” A preacher was up to the waist in water at the end of the path, his audience barring the tunnel leading to the exit. “Or do we put our stock in our prophet’s faith, turned by the hand of the Almighty, and rejoice that he has such trust in his people? Do we follow his - ”

“Oi!” Crowley cut through the crowd, waving to the preacher - the  _ blind  _ preacher. “‘Scuse me, father, you put any holy water in this swimming pool of yours?”

The preacher smiled with a fatherly air that didn’t suit his face. “Is that a new voice I hear? Come to join God’s children?”

“Yeah, yeah, more or less; yes, no, holy water?”

There was a murmur amidst the assembled praying. “No, my son, but for your baptism into the community - ”

“Perfect.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and everyone went rigid. “No baptism today, sorry - go about your business, I’ll let myself out. Forget I was here.” He began to wade through the tunnel, following the current towards the light.

**_Baptism_ ** \- _oh, Aziraphale must have been positively giddy_ , he thought. As if the giant golden angel wasn’t enough of a generous ego stroke. What a delightfully charming way to welcome people into the city, drowning them into the church family. The roof of the tunnel was fairly low: most likely didn’t walk through as much as float. Crowley wasn’t having much trouble with it, anyways. Of course, the hymn was still echoing off the walls and giving him a headache, and he couldn’t tell what he was actually walking towards, but there was worse in the world, he figured.

And then he reached the end of the river, tripped over the edge, and fell face first into the shallow water below.

He yanked his head out of the pool out of instinct more than necessity, shaking the water from his hair. Above him, silhouetted against the sunlight, three towering marble figures extended golden idols - one fleshy-sort figure extended a hand.

“Were you waiting for me to do that?” Crowley grumbled, pushing himself to his feet.

“I’ll admit, I was a little nervous about your prospects in there, but I’m glad you’re out in one piece.  _ Can _ demons be baptized?” Aziraphale retracted his hand politely, somehow bone dry while Crowley was drenched from head to toe.

“I’m not going to be the one to test it, that’s for sure. You mean you let that old man baptize you?”

“Well, it isn’t much use to me, but I didn’t see any reason not to.”

_ Naturally _ , thought Crowley. “Who are they?” He gestured towards the statues above them.

Aziraphale’s face became slightly red, giving him the appearance of a very flustered snowman. “Ah, yes - these are the, erm, the founding fathers: the  _ Founders _ , they call them here. Thomas Jefferson, he has the scroll, for moral guidance; that’ll be George Washington in the middle, with the sword - courage, naturally; and Benjamin Franklin, the key, for wisdom.”

“Figured that out all on your own, did you?” Crowley smirked.

“Some of them explained it to me,” Aziraphale gestured to the citizens praying in the garden around them. “Were any of the founding fathers of America  _ this _ muscular?”

“Certainly not as  _ modest _ ,” said Crowley, looking at the stone togas wrapped around their (indeed bizarre) musculature. Together, they stepped from the pond and further into the garden. More of the prayers, all wearing robes of white, murmured amongst the flowers, sitting together and asking the Father - whether it be Jefferson, Washington, Franklin, or some combination - for peace, for prosperity, for strength, all the typical things one prayed for. “Still think this might be the Almighty’s work?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure: these people may be a little misguided, but it’s entirely possible that the trouble is demonic interference, not the city itself.”

“Oh, the  _ city’s _ fine?” Crowley looked up at the plaque over the doors leaving the garden. “Aziraphale, that’s the second time I’ve seen that ‘seed of the prophet’ bit within the last ten minutes. None of that’s in Revelations - they came up with the ‘drowning in flame’ themselves. And,” he continued, as he pushed the door open to overlook the town square, which was built around yet another massive stone statue of the prophet, “I’m seeing a  _ lot _ of false idols here. You know, that’s been four visages of this one prophet fellow and nothing of Jesus Christ, _or_ the Virgin Mary. Little presumptuous?”

“A little? I’m not an  _ idiot _ , Crowley, it’s hardly an encouraging look for them. The idea of  **sanctifying** American politicians is more than a little gauche - I’m just choosing to hope for the best, at least for now.” Aziraphale started down the stairs to the bridge into town, conjuring a straw boater hat out of nowhere - they seemed to be popular amongst the local gentlemen. “In the meantime, I’m dying to find something to nibble on: there’s been some positively  _ sumptuous _ scents wafting into the garden.”

“Whatever floats your proverbial boat, angel. While you’re looking, hand me that note of yours, will you? I want to check it over again.”

“I thought you copied it.”

“Yeah, you told me to copy it, and then I didn’t. Hand it over.” Aziraphale gave him the note, but upon his realizing it was slightly damp, the ink seemed to run back into place, the paper becoming crisp again, if slightly crinkled. Crowley started to re-read it: Aziraphale was busy asking a nearby hot dog vendor about his toppings. It was all a bizarre mishmash of things that made sense and things that didn’t, uncharacteristic for Aziraphale - and yet, all laid out neatly in his writing. In truth, Crowley was himself beginning to wonder if it was a forgery, to drive the angel to do something drastic. If so, he didn’t want to be the dependable one, but he also didn’t want to watch Aziraphale make some terrible mistake, even if it would be slightly vindicating after never having received an apology for the ‘fraternizing’ conversation that _absolutely had nothing to do with his hibernation, no, thank you_.

“Is it just me, or are they fond of angel portraits up here?” He had noticed a few on the building above them - posters of the great golden angel that overlooked the city, reading:

COLUMBIA MEMORIAL WEEK

1910

IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE FIRST LADY

AND THE BIRTH OF THE LAMB OF COLUMBIA

Aziraphale hastily tried to swallow his mouthful of hot dog. “Come now, I don’t think that’s really so dreadful. Besides, there’s different posters for the same event - that one over there has an infant on it.”

“How  _ charming _ ,” Crowley sneered. Without looking, he stepped out into the street and was narrowly avoided by a passing horse-drawn carriage. The horse, much to their surprise, was entirely made of tin, with blue sparks flying out of it’s crevices as it plodded along, though the man driving it was both flesh and extremely irritable. “So where to now?”

“We’ll follow everyone else’s lead, I think. Where there’s people, there’s information, and information is what we need first and foremost.” Smiling, Aziraphale dabbed some mustard off the corner of his lip with his hanky - pompous as ever, as if the two of them were already back in the swing of things.

Most of the people of Columbia seemed to be moving out of the square towards the fairground, children running down the street with red and blue balloons in their fists. Indeed, it was as if there was a celebration in full swing, autumn leaves blowing past the striped blue banners hung from every lamppost. Music was coming from every corner of the air, from gramophone or streetside pianist, underscored by the clock dutifully ringing in the hour. The men were all in suits; the ladies wore white hats with ribbons tied round and flowers pinned on, clutching lacy parasols to their chests. Past the bridge, a trolley floated up to sit above the park, a barbershop quartet serenading the passersby from the deck.

“ _ Country roads, take me home _

_ To the place I belong _

_ Sweet Virginia, mountain mama, _

_ Take me home, country roads… _ ”

People were drinking soda pop out of bottles, laughing and chattering amongst themselves - Crowley only caught snippets beneath the sweet swell of noise hanging over them like a fog. Gossip, flirtation, naughty jokes: the people above seemed so carefree, as if they were all caught up in a beautiful dream away from the sorrows of the world. He remembered times like that from before he and his were cast out of Heaven - watching the universe drift by lazily, unquestioningly, merrily hanging off the stars in the sky with no concept of gravity.

_ It wouldn’t last here _ , he thought.  _ It never did _ .

There was a crowd forming around an outdoor stage, where some manner of pageant seemed to be taking place. Aziraphale stopped and gestured towards a nearby bench: when Crowley kept walking away, Aziraphale took a seat, waiting for him to realize that the angel was no longer following and trudge back.

“The Archangel Columbia has shown me the path to the New Eden,” droned a little boy wearing an absurdly fake white beard, no older than eight. He was standing over a cast of children dressed as pilgrims, all facing towards the audience with blank faces. One boy was bent over the ground, picking at something near his feet. “With the Sword, the Scroll, and the Key, we will set out for the promised land our Founders pledged us.”

“And so they did,” another child shouted dully, holding a pitchfork. “Our Father Comstock, the Prophet, led us to Columbia. It was another ark for another time.”

“Ark? Was there some sort of great flood in America while I was out?” Crowley whispered, but was promptly shushed by Aziraphale.

“Soon, the First Lady Comstock gave birth to the child of the prophet, after carrying the baby in her womb for seven days.” A little girl, dressed as a far older woman, entered holding a doll wrapped in cloth. She seemed to be the class actress, posing and projecting for the assembled parents. “The seed of the prophet is ill,” she said, “but I will pray for the baby day and night, in the hope that she shall heal!”

An adoring sigh rose from the audience. Crowley stifled a snicker.

“The Prophet declared that the Lamb of Columbia would be the future of the city, and lead the Sodom below down the path of righteousness.” The child dressed as a priest didn’t seem to know what the line he had rehearsed meant, but Aziraphale looked startled.

“ _ Sodom _ ? He couldn’t have misspoke, could he?”

“Who knows? Only seven, might have gotten it wrong.”

“Yes, but he shouldn’t know about Sodom at  _ that _ age….” He fell quiet as the young child playing the Lady Comstock handed the baby doll off to one of the pilgrim women.

A child wearing a red scarf crept up behind the First Lady. The audience began to boo. What happened next could only be described as mock strangulation - the child in the scarf weakly took the First Lady by the neck, the First Lady made a sound like she was coughing up a kernel of popcorn, and then died.

“But the leader of the Vox, Daisy Fitzroy, hated the Lamb and First Lady, and killed the Lady Comstock.” Crowley seemed bemused, but his smile wasn’t quite as broad anymore. Aziraphale was biting his lip.

“The Prophet began his hunt for the Vox Populi, and hid the Lamb in Monument Tower.”

“Daisy Fitzroy has taken my beloved,” shouted the little boy Comstock, with all the emotion of a barely entertained cat, “but she will not take the child!”

And then, all together, the children said; “ _ The seed of the prophet shall sit the throne, and drown in flame the mountains of man! _ ”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley could feel that something was very wrong, and something was indeed about to be: for the children began to sing.

In the early days, it was easy for the forces of darkness to devise ways to turn humanity against one another and procure souls for the Beast. Religion was one method. Gender another. But race, no matter what period of time, always seemed to be dreadfully effective. Demons found it to be handy when seeking to stir up trouble - the equivalent of adding a squeeze of lemon to a bitter cup of tea.

However, dismaying to note is that such prejudice  _ is _ Hell’s invention, but not its institution: the honor of having erected it as such belongs to human beings. The foundations they built to maintain supremacy, the imaginary line between “us” and “them”, the atrocities committed because of some misguided belief that the Great Plan was formed in their image - this was all the work of man, proudly carried on in horrific fashion for centuries under new names and new faces.

Prejudice is the Devil’s tool, but all he ever did was hand humanity the hammer and nails.

And the people of Columbia were extremely skilled carpenters.


	3. Get The Hook

The saying “cleanliness is next to godliness” has dubious origins - it wasn’t something that many angels had been saying before humans were, but once it became a common phrase, most of the archangels and seraphim had picked it up with the confidence of those who had made it popular in the first place. Not that it didn’t apply to Heaven, but the general motto upstairs was not to hold any virtues above the others; the way angels used it was as a punctuation to end conversations or meetings, in the same manner you would drop an insult once directed towards you that you found rather funny in the middle of a casual chat, to punch it up. Still, if cleanliness was next godliness, and it so happened that Heaven, while God’s domain, was more directly under the Almighty than the home of the Almighty, then Heaven would have to be clean - absurdly clean, in fact, to the point where it seemed godliness was also next to barrenness.

Aziraphale had never been terribly fond of how empty Heaven was, not after enjoying the lush greenery in Eden for a spell. The sheer amount of _stuff_ filling up the planet made his job more tolerable, and eventually preferable over his time in Heaven. He would never say so, of course, but to those who knew him, his zeal for fancy alcohol and white tailcoats would seem out of place in anything as severe as religion. (“Anyone calling you a stalwart Christian, dear boy, will take me for a prude and a miser next,” Wilde had said not 30 years before, and Aziraphale hadn’t done much to correct him.) Still, Heaven was home, and any return is tinged with the warm glow of familiarity, even if said home is an empty cardboard box growing damp behind a carnival truck. He felt that familiarity as he walked through the streets of Columbia, but intermingled with the things he loved about the earth: the smell of bread, the feeling of uneven brick streets beneath his shoes, the happy skip in his chest when he heard the sound of laughter. It was heavenly enough, and yet so _mortal_ : perhaps the closest to Heaven mortals would ever come.

At least, nearly the closest, had he not sat down for a convenient history lesson from a class of eight year olds.

In the interest of good taste, the description of the pageant’s finale as a rousing march encouraging militant racial segregation will suffice to describe the contents of the _deeply_ uncomfortable two and a half minutes Crowley and Aziraphale were trapped listening to the off key musical stylings of elementary school children.

“Happy Birthday, Lamb of Columbia!” They waved up to someone who wasn’t listening, and then took an uneven bow, to the proud applause of those assembled. Aziraphale, looking nauseous, was the first to leave his seat.

“Absolutely _dreadful_ , all of it…” He was wringing his hands, enough to draw Crowley nearer - though that was to try and avoid drawing too much attention from the complacent crowd. “How could I have ever thought otherwise? This has all the makings of some infernal plot, I’m sure of it: we would never concoct something like this, we _couldn’t_ \- and to think I believed there was even the remotest chance of some heavenly influence, after _all_ the warning signs - ”

“Keep yourself together, angel, you’ll be raising more questions than souls for the Almighty at this rate.” Crowley was desperately trying to usher him away before someone noticed a grown man angrily fretting over a children’s recital. “Look, I wasn’t sure myself, and I’m still not certain who’s claiming this one, but there’s no doubt that this isn’t your people’s work, not after…. _that_.”

“It’s a travesty, Crowley!” They were finally out of the street, away from prying eyes. “A complete disaster! And if this wasn’t my side, and we don’t know if it was your side, then what was the point of even coming?”

Crowley wasn’t sure how to answer, but recalled the note in his pocket, pulling it out and unfolding the creases in the paper. “The baby on the posters ‘round town - you recall how many fingers it had?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t _look_ ; why do you ask?”

Behind his sunglasses, Aziraphale could tell Crowley’s eyes were scanning over the list. “The one in the church we came in - _not_ church, but church-looking spot - I think it had nine.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?” Distraught, Aziraphale snatched the paper back, but a word near the title caught his eye.

_CONCERNING ELIZABETH_

  * _Elizabeth - no surname given. Thimble on missing pinky finger (right hand), brown hair, blue eyes._



“Brown hair - “

“Missing pinky.” Crowley hissed. “We’ve been seeing your new best friend Elizabeth - ”

“ - oh, for Heaven’s _sakes_ , Crowley - ”

“ - since we got off the rocket! The ‘Seed of the Prophet’, the Lamb of Columbia - you’re looking for their messiah!”

“Yes, and what then? How do we know she’s not...well, not like the _other_ children?”

“We _don’t_ know that. Sure, there’s a chance they’ve been filling her head with the same nonsense as the others, but there’s also a chance that she’s been left to her own devices. And I think that chance is good if you, or someone who’s got an eye on you, is pointing us in her direction.”

The angel’s hands steepled against his lips. “So we know who she is, and now we know _where_ she is....now the question is what we’re meant to do with that information. I mean to say, obviously we’ve got to find Elizabeth, but for what purpose, exactly…”

“Well, _I_ have a pretty good idea already. In my… _wicked_ demonic scheme, which naturally I’ve had all along, I’ve decided I’m not too big a fan of this place. Too nasty to be Heavenly, too saintly - too much pretending to be, at least, to be any good to Hell. So I wager, if ‘ _the Lamb is the future of the city_ ’, all I need to do is open up the stable and let it run out for the wolves. Simple as that.”

The angel vaguely recalled something from a conversation centuries past, as they watched wolves and horses and ducks marching up into a great wooden boat two by two. “Well, we can’t just _abandon_ a little girl, can we? We take her down to America, find her a nice family, maybe convince her this was all a big nightmare - ”

“Eh, tomato, tomato.” Crowley shrugged. “Whatever gets her out, right?”

“‘ _The Lamb is the future of the city -_ ‘ so if we were to, ah, liberate the child, so to speak, we might...would we actually _destroy_ the place?” Aziraphale looked as if he were caught between concern and dizzying excitement. He was a level-headed angel, even if he tended to show more emotion than most, but he himself was surprised at how incensed he had become by one city so rooted in evil after watching 6000 years of wretched human affairs go by.

“Probably not _destroy_ it. Derail it, maybe. Knock down a few phony prophecies, cause a bit of hysteria.” Crowley grinned. “Not out of any moral obligation, you understand, at least on my end.”

Slowly, Aziraphale began to nod. “Of course, of course - I’m more than happy to pick up the slack on _moral obligation_. Righteousness, and all that. Just promise you won’t go completely mad, Crowley. Draw too much attention and we’ll both be in deep trouble.” Adjusting his boater, he led Crowley back out into the street, the two of them keeping an eye open for suspicious faces. “Now, all we have to do is get into that tower.”

“Hop on a trolley, ride over to the front door, and we’re right there, aren’t we?”

“Ha! Surely it can’t be _that_ easy.”

A shrine was accumulating at the station leading to Monument Island - even though every sign was plastered over with notices reading _CLOSED - by order of the Prophet_.

“I feel you may have overestimated our luck a tad.” Murmured Aziraphale, as a little girl adjusted a pretty doll beneath a bouquet of freshly-cut roses. The gates to the inside were shut tight and blocked by security, watching the crowds lay down gifts and candles beneath the stone angel statue overlooking the bridge below her.

“Well, just because they say it’s ‘closed’ doesn’t mean it’s necessarily _‘closed_ closed’.” Crowley was already unpacking what the guards were armed with, how many there were, how visible they would be trying to get around. “If anyone’s going to find a way, it’s us.”

“We’re not going to be exerting ourselves too early on, Crowley, we’ve still got to get out of the city.” Aziraphale fiddled with his fingers a bit, trying not to give into the temptation to just flick the wrist and waltz on past. “They must be on watch for the whole memorial week, we can’t stay here that long.”

“Then we’ll take the long way,” said Crowley, strolling back down the bridge the way they came. It was already nighttime, the lights in the city illuminating the surrounding clouds like little burning stars caught in the atmosphere. “Besides, this late, I’m sure we don’t have to worry about being spotted too easily. That tower’s got something or other on every side, there’s bound to be a way around.”

Aziraphale followed behind, looking back as the feeling crept up his spine that he would see Michael, or Uriel, or even Gabriel watching him, patiently waiting for him to answer for the mess they’d caught him wrapped up in. He wasn’t wrong: somebody was behind them - two somebodies, in fact, side by side, who hadn’t been there when they had left.

“Crowley - Crowley, turn around!”

“What?” Crowley glanced behind Aziraphale. “What am I looking at?”

Aziraphale couldn’t properly say: he must have blinked, because the couple had vanished before his very eyes. “I think we’re being watched.”

“Look like yours or mine?”

“More like mine, but definitely not anybody I know.” Aziraphale didn’t recall there being any red-headed angels, certainly not two.

Crowley might have. “Let’s split up for now - ask around a bit about how we might get onto the island, meet up when the coast is clear,” he murmured, taking a sharp turn towards his left with his shoulders hunching over. He slunk into a nearby alley, the angel watching him disappear into the shadows from the end of the bridge. Unsurprisingly, being on his own didn’t put him at ease, but perhaps without Crowley, the situation would go from “despondent” to “potentially salvageable” should he run into any of his superiors.

 _Oh, what are you kidding_ , Aziraphale thought. _This is a dreadful affair with or without him_.

What is important to note about the angel and the demon’s divergence in routes for a temporary period of time is that both, by happenstance, also came to return to the bridge at the exact same moment.

The series of events that led them to reconverge happened squarely within that period of time.

It is also important to note that while Crowley walked away from the bridge towards his left, Aziraphale did not follow him.

Aziraphale turned right.

This is what happened from the time that they left to the time they reunited.

Crowley came out near a shuttered up storefront, a sign in the door reading _CLOSED FOR MEMORIAL WEEK._ There were a few of them along the street, though some smaller shops appeared to be operating as usual. Each door had a little Columbian flag waving over it: red and white stripes, and in the middle, a blue shield with one white star in the center. The United State of Columbia, perhaps: a self-centered flag for a hilariously self-centered city.

It really might have been a stellar thing to take credit for down below - shame Aziraphale didn’t take kindly to it. Spoiled a bit of the fun of it all.

He followed the lamplit road towards the statue’s right side, scanning the skies for any close-floating apartments or flying vehicles. On his way over he had spotted an airship, but it looked too distinctive to avoid attracting attention.

“What business does he have looking up at the sky - ”

“ - when he knows very well what it looks like if he were to look down?”

Crowley almost jumped straight out of his coat: he had nearly walked straight into a pair of twins - one male, one female, both with bright ginger hair and green ties - blocking the road, observing him with wry, disinterested faces. “Pardon me, just...birdwatching.” It was stupid to anyone who cared.

“If what you’re doing is birdwatching, _up_ may not be the appropriate perspective.” Said the man, who didn’t budge to let him pass.

“Indeed. Perhaps he might favor a horizontal approach over a vertical one.” Replied the woman, who stayed firm.

“It all depends on if he’s watching for a bird or watching _out_ for a bird.”

“If he’s watching for a bird, up might serve him well.”

“But if he’s watching _out_ for a bird, getting from point A to point B may require looking forwards and backwards.”

If he hadn’t had the glasses on, they might have seen him roll his eyes. “Yeah, well, sorry about the collision, lovely talking to you - ”

“He’s not too bright, is he?” Asked the woman dryly, still impassable.

“I think he’s bound to get the idea.”

“If forwards isn’t doing him any favors - ”

“ - then backwards is the direction he ought to go.”

“Alright, fine, fine. Can’t move you lot - have a _lovely_ evening, or something.” He stormed back towards the way he came, passing the alley where he’d come out. He’d go round the block instead.

Of course, what he saw when he turned the corner was, in fact, a bird: a bird he _had_ been watching out for, perhaps a bit too eagerly. It was emblazoned on one of the posters lining the streets, proudly displayed with rays of sunlight behind its extended wings, and the poster read -

SING PRAISE TO THE SONGBIRD

FOR HE IS THE PROTECTOR OF THE LAMB.

  


Aziraphale followed the light down towards the church - of course he would end up near a church, no matter how heretical it might be against the almighty. There was still some music drifting in the air, a pianist in a nearby pub playfully grinding out a ragtime tune, and to his right, a little park: there were ducks floating about in a pond.

Quite worn down by the day’s events, he sunk down onto a bench, watching the birds quack absently. It had all been such a miserable affair - of course, he knew that there was a chance things might be rotten from the moment he learned that the city had once opened fire on Chinese civilians, but being cut off from his one source of demonic indications had given him hope that it was just a matter of redirecting Columbia to its heavenly course. Demons caused accidents like that all the time - many good people had been bamboozled into doing horrible things. That it was so _despicable_ from the ground up, though: well, he knew that it wasn’t indicative of the majority of humans, but it was the sort of thing that put a damper on his outlook. 

How had he gotten caught up in all this, anyways? A silly note, a truly poor attempt at extending an olive branch backfiring into some ridiculous scheme - Aziraphale didn’t think he’d been a good angel, or at all a very good friend.

“One does wish to be something they aren’t, don’t they?” From directly behind him, he heard a voice, and just about flung himself straight off the bench.

“Or perhaps they are, and they simply don’t know it yet.”

Behind the bench were standing a pair of twins - one male, one female, both with bright ginger hair and green ties - watching him quite intently. “Oh, terribly sorry - what do you mean by that?” Aziraphale stammered, straightening his coat.

“Take myself, for example - ” the woman continued, as though she hadn’t heard him at all. “Oh, how very much I would like to be a mechanical worker, allowed to fly along the rails on a skyhook to reach a very unattainable place.” It didn’t sound at all as if she had any interest of the sort.

“Ironic,” replied the man. “I quite thought you were already.”

“So you’re implying that I’ve always been as much?”

“I’m implying that it’s all a matter of putting yourself in the right frame of mind.”

Aziraphale tried to find a place to jump into the conversation. “I’m sorry - did you say they allow handymen up to the tower?”

“Handymen and Handymen.” Said the woman.

“Neither particularly often.” Said the man.

“But often enough to be distinct.”

“Perhaps if I were to - ”

“ - pray?”

“Nothing so preposterous, but a little belief might go a long way.”

“And the proper tools for a handyman, I suppose.” From out of nowhere, the woman produced a strange mechanical device: something like a triggered wheel spun by protruding gears, except the wheel was in the shape of three metal hooks. She extended it without saying a word.

Aziraphale, wordlessly understanding that he was being asked to take it, gingerly plucked it out of her hands and fitted it around his arm - it felt secure enough, and no doubt it had to be if people had to use it to travel. On which rails, however...he’d only noticed the ones that carried cargo.

“Oh, thank you very much,” said Aziraphale, “I so appreciate the - ”

He looked up from his arm. Nobody was there.

Only 20 minutes or so since they had separated, Aziraphale and Crowley reunited at the end of the bridge leading to the station, both red-cheeked and out of breath.

“We can - ”

“We can’t get up to the tower, not without a miracle.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“We can’t get up to the tower, no way.” Crowley mopped his brow, trying to maneuver around his sunglasses. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“I believe it’s called a sky-hook,” said Aziraphale, and he proudly pulled the trigger to make it spin. “Turns out, all we’ve got to do is masquerade as handymen to get through the gates. Beyond that, I suppose we’re meant to figure it out.”

“No, no, no - the bird, the great metal bird, it guards the tower.” Crowley leaned against the edge of the bridge, leaning back to see if there was something patrolling the skies for them already. “How are we s’posed to get past that?”

“Well, seeing as we don’t have to miracle ourselves all the way over to the island now, I suppose it’d take _about_ the same sort of power to... _sort out_ the bird?” Aziraphale nodded pointedly; Crowley hadn’t seen him change into a set of white coveralls. “Now that we’ve got a _practical_ means of travel.”

“Right - they might think it’s odd if he vanishes out of the blue, right? Massive thing like that, you can’t just lose him.” Looking around, he snapped himself a corresponding set of black coveralls.

“Oh, get creative, Crowley, that’s _your_ specialty.” As they began to stroll back down towards the island, the night only growing darker, Aziraphale was humming to himself a bit like a bumblebee - perhaps preparing to look inconspicuous, which is, naturally, the worst way to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a bit sloppy! I may go back and tweak it, but I've also got a nearly finished chapter queued up after this one so please bear with me on this less-great update.


	4. Two And A Half Angels

“That could NOT have been more conspicuous if we’d  _ genuinely _ tried.”

And Crowley was quite right about that - two Englishmen strolling up in the middle of the night, claiming to be workers in need of the rail? Unimpressive. Two workers having to ask the nearest guard where, precisely, the rail was, and how  _ does _ one get all the way up there to put the hook on? Bad. The copious amounts of screaming as they’d hurtled down the railway, Crowley clutching Aziraphale’s waist for dear life? Yeah, Crowley thought, they were almost certainly getting arrested.

“I thought we did rather well,” huffed Aziraphale, who was trying to climb up over the gate - yes, a second gate, on the island itself - quite unsuccessfully. “Besides, it’s awfully late at night for anyone to try and follow us.”

“Yes, but the key to not looking like we’re out to commit some sort of crime is to act like we’re meant to be where we are, and that’s pretty much the opposite of how we looked back there.”

“We are committing a crime - so to speak. Well, more in the technical sense.” Aziraphale’s legs were finally over to the other side: Crowley was still crawling up the bars, fumbling on the chains that had sealed the gates firmly shut.

“Does everyone need to know it, though? Makes things easier for us - not to say that this hasn’t been.” For a moment, they glanced at each other through the as they passed on either side.

“Dear boy, for all the times you’ve told me I worry too much, I’m beginning to think I’ve rubbed off on you - about time, I should think.” If Aziraphale hadn’t been looking at the tower, he would have noticed Crowley sighing exasperatedly at the top of the gate, finally hoisting his legs over.

It was still a sight to behold in the dark, even though it had clearly been built to glow ethereally beneath the rays of the sun. The angel’s face was blank, neither vengeful or forgiving, though her arms reached to accept new lambs into the city’s wicked flock. At her base, however, were signs reading things like KEEP OUT and CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE PROPHET in big red letters amidst the bushes and trees left to grow out over the path.

An interesting fact about being a principality or a demon or whatnot - dealing with most human affairs feels much like walking past a great many signs reading things like KEEP OUT and strolling through the unlocked door anyways.

The entrance hall was less a glowing invitation into a local monument than it was an unkempt locker room - past it, a corridor with flickering lights and broken, untended contraptions. All around the place were more of the great blaring signs, left to the wayside: SPECIMEN IS DANGEROUS. 72 HOUR QUARANTINE. DO NOT SPEAK TO THE SPECIMEN.

“They’re studying her.” Crowley murmured, looking up at a large chalk growth chart.

“ _ Specimen _ \- what sort of people call a child a specimen?” In the next room, Aziraphale was examining a large, crackling contraption, rigged to respond to samples in bell jars. Bolts of electricity, flaring up in streaks of blue, danced above the room wildly.

“Same sort of people who’d launch a whole city into the air because they enjoy being racist, angel, use your imagination.” 

“It’s just a lot of pretense for keeping someone in here, I think. Can’t they just say it’s private property?”

“Eh, doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t have stopped us from coming in anyways.”

“...Quite.” The angel nodded, watching the sparks cautiously as he moved beneath them into the next room. Crowley glanced at the samples from the corner of his eye - they were only simple things, books and toys, not implements of science.

And yet, the machine was still humming: between each item, there was only one common denominator.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted from up ahead - Crowley tore his attention away from the device and hurried after him, looking around in alarm. “What is it, what’d I miss?” He asked.

“Are you feeling anything...odd?”

“Why, are you?”

From his head to his toes, a little shake traveled down Aziraphale’s body. “I don’t know: there’s a lot of feelings about this place hanging about, not at all welcome ones.”

“I’ve been having odd feelings since I  _ got _ here, but I chalked it up to the half naked statues of American politicians.” Crowley shrugged, peeking into the nearest room: a darkroom, with pictures developing - pictures, he made out, of someone who would not have been in the position they were in if they’d known a camera was at their back. “None of this looks particularly  _ good _ , if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh...what have we gotten ourselves into? Are we certain we shouldn’t check in with someone before we go any further? You know, you with  _ yours _ , myself with the Almighty...”

“At this point? It’s more trouble to try and explain how we got here than it is just to get it over with.” Walking past the angel, Crowley opened the next set of doors - these led into a massive chamber, with an even larger version of the machine they’d just left reaching all the way up into the tower’s structure. The sign leaning against the wall read DO NOT APPROACH SIPHON WHILE SPECIMEN IS AWAKE, and indeed as they approached the stairs they noticed speakers propped up on every side the strange blue generator, pulsing with some implacable sound that flowed into the titanic device, feeding its energy.

“I have absolutely  _ no  _ idea what this is meant to do.” Said Crowley, bending down to see if something connected to the top of the device.

“It looks like a giant battery,” Aziraphale mused, passing one of the speakers. “Odd that it doesn’t seem to be powering anything, though.”

“That we can see.” At the back of the chamber, Crowley saw it: an elevator. “Reckon we ought to check the top floor? I don’t suppose they’d keep all this where a certain specimen might find it.”

“Agreed.” Eagerly, Aziraphale followed Crowley to the lift, still glancing over his shoulder.

“Oh, for Hell’s sakes, you’re still worried about being followed?” Crowley groaned, strolling through the doors. There was only one button, fairly large, and Crowley took the opportunity to slap it with his open hand. “Wouldn’t have let us get this far, would they?”

The lift shuddered into motion, but the light flickered out for a moment: when it came back up ,  the two of them were face to face with a pair of twins - one male, one female, both with bright ginger hair and green ties - staring back at them blankly, even as they jumped and shouted in shock.

“How far have you really gone?” Asked the woman.

“And how far have you yet to go?” Asked the man.

“You - you  _ have  _ been following us, I knew it!” Aziraphale said, finger pointed in the face of the woman looking across from him. “Crowley, these are the individuals who gave me the - ”

“ - told me about the bird.” Crowley said, glaring down the bridge of his nose at the man before he realized what Aziraphale was saying, head turning incredulously. “Wait, _ they _ gave you the - ?”

“ - how did  _ they  _ tell you about the bird?”

“We were rather surprised by your solution.” Said the man.

“ _ In for maintenance _ ,” said the woman, vaguely sounding as if her face would be smiling were it capable.

“A mundane way of solving an extraordinary problem for someone with your - how would you say it?”

“ _ Predisposition _ .”

The angel and demon glanced at one another from the corner of their eyes. “I don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.” Said Aziraphale.

“We figured you might not.” Said the woman.

“And we won’t press the matter any further,” the man continued.

“Only offer some advice.”

“Or a warning.”

“Right, then, out with it - no need for the riddles.” Crowley sighed, looking for a trace of any emotion between the two of them. They were completely empty, or at least exceptionally good at not betraying a single thought: not unusual for any of his peers, but odd for humans.

“To wit: we have no stake in interfering with the affairs of a higher power.” Answered the man.

“There is no benefit in picking the wrong sort of fight.”

“So we found it more prudent to make things a little easier for you, even if you are at an advantage as it is.”

“You’ve been endowed with the tools to turn the tide of human history - ”

“ - we simply have the means to see upon which shores the waves land.”

“How do you mean that?” The demon’s voice fell low. Aziraphale was looking between them nervously, the hum of the elevator rattling his chest.

“We don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.” Said the man, something mocking slipping into his tone.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, nodding towards Crowley - hesitantly, Crowley nodded back. “Very well, then - whatever you have to share, we’re more than happy to hear.”

“Only this - you cannot answer a question if the question is un-asked.” Said the woman.

“And the question  _ must _ be asked if you are to know the answer.”

“Pardon?” Crowley’s mouth seemed to be biting the air for words, agape as the twins stared back at him. The elevator  _ dinged _ as it reached the top floor - the lights began to flicker out. When the doors slid open, they were alone again.

“What in the world…” Stepping out into the next room, Aziraphale rubbed his temples, looking back as if the duo would magically reappear at any moment. “They’re no ordinary humans - they couldn’t possibly be.”

As Crowley went to follow, his foot caught something small on the elevator floor: a black key, with the image of a bird on one side and a cage on the other. He scooped it up off the ground, slipping it into his coat pocket - he heard it rustle against Aziraphale’s note.

“Do you really think they could see the future? I was under the impression that only the Almighty had the capacity to do so.” 

“Even if they can, a fat lot of help they’d be - they sounded absolutely mental, and that’s speaking as someone who hung around George the Third for a week.”

The elevator had deposited them in what looked like an observation room, coldly lit, with two shuttered windows and a camera propped up to capture footage. Near the next door was a directory - a list of different rooms, with a light on behind the label reading STUDY.

“Must be where she is.” Crowley said.

“How can you tell?”

He gestured to the top of the list: SPECIMEN LOCATION.

“Right.”

They followed the structure of the building around, traveling through the body of the angel, until they found the door that matched the key: a great big sealed door, with the name FINK plastered on it proudly.

“Elizabeth?” They were stepping into the large library now; not as impressive as Aziraphale’s, but stocked well enough to occupy a quick reader for a few years. Painted on the ceiling and walls were clouds, beautiful mockeries of the sky hanging tantalizingly outside the wide open window at the top of the stairs. Statues watched from every side, never looking at them, but above them.

“You in, Elizabeth? Or should we come back later?” Crowley was making a big show of the whole thing - looking under chairs, behind curtains - prancing about until Aziraphale scoldingly batted his shoulder.

“For goodness sakes’, Crowley, we’re  _ breaking in _ , not popping by for tea and biscuits. You’ll terrify the poor girl.”

“ _ I’ll _ terrify - you know, angel, the thing is, if one person breaks into a house, it’s a crime. If multiple people do it, it’s a  _ conspiracy _ .” There only appeared to be one route to follow besides the door they’d unlocked, leading down a dim red hallway. “Plus, she’s outnumbered two to one, if you don’t count the time twins hanging around. None of this isn’t  _ already _ terrifying.”

“That’s just the  _ trouble _ with demons. If, just this once, you’d embrace your…more  _ positive _ qualities,” Aziraphale said, fully expecting the grimace splitting across Crowley’s face, “maybe we wouldn’t have to worry about being threatening at all. We’re really rather -  _ well-meaning _ .”

“Well-meaning, eh? Well,  _ I _ mean to leave this tower with one child and a very confused city in my wake, and we’ll go about that however we need to.”

“Just try to be delicate - and if you have no intention of being so, let me talk to her before we….”

“Kidnap her? Because that’s what this is, Aziraphale. This is the textbook definition of a kidnapping.” Crowley peeked around the first room they passed through: walls decorated with pictures of a tall, pointed tower and posters with titles in French, mannequins with handmade dresses on. 

“Oh, don’t say it like  _ that _ , Crowley. We both agreed on it, you can’t start with this now.”

“Say it like what? You just admitted yourself that we’re practically breaking and entering.”

“Well, don’t say it like...like we’re doing something  _ wrong _ .”

“You and being wrong - you know, if you stopped worrying so much about being right all the bloody time, maybe you wouldn’t - ”

But Aziraphale never found out what he wouldn’t be if he stopped worrying so much about being right all the bloody time, because as they turned the corner, Crowley at the lead, an easel came swinging from the side and smashed Crowley straight in the jaw - knocking his glasses straight onto the floor.

Crouched in the room before them, holding the folded up easel like a bat, was a young woman with brunette hair and wide, blue eyes - rich and vivid, like the sky over an endless desert - and the demon saw it instantly, clutching the wood: a thimble where her right pinky ought to be. Catching sight of Crowley’s yellow, slitted pupils, she began to scream, but froze before she could run out of breath, her makeshift weapon clattering to the floor.

Crowley looked down at his hand, wondering when he’d snapped, but he hadn’t: Aziraphale had, his mouth gaping open and shut like a fish. “....I honestly don’t know whether or not I’m supposed to thank you for that, angel.” he stared at Aziraphale, who was slowly walking towards the immobile girl as if he’d seen a ghost. “You all right?”

“Crowley, I...I  _ know _ this girl.” He had gone quite pale in the face, still struggling to put words together. This was not lost on Crowley, who had quite a different view of the situation.

“Alright, I’m starting to see how this goes. You only did that ‘cause you knew she would recognize you.”

“Crowley…”

“Oh,  _ come on _ , Aziraphale, you’re a dreadful liar and we both know that’s why you never try it, cut the act. Brought me up to help to make up for our little  _ spat _ , did you?” He rubbed the smudge off his glasses a bit more roughly than usual. “Took us off on some grand adventure under the pretense of a magical memory list - and I’ll admit, it’s not what I would have been doing ordinarily - but as soon as she opened her mouth and said ‘Oh, fancy seeing you here, Aziraphale, you’ve been missing meetings at the Four Syllable Name Club, how’s it been,’ the game’s up.”

“ _ Crowley _ , I…”

“You know, I’m actually quite impressed, if not a bit stung that this is how you choose to apologize for - ”

“Crowley, the last time I saw this girl was  _ twenty years ago _ , and she hasn’t aged a day!” Aziraphale shouted, finally derailing the train of thought charging straight out of Crowley’s mouth. “She-she-she comes into the shop sometimes -  _ came _ into the shop -  **_was_ ** in the shop, I-I never even noticed her entering...I remember wondering why she was all alone, but I don’t know  _ why _ I didn’t ask, a-and then she just - stopped coming…”

“You’re sure this is the same girl? No doubt?” The demon’s voice had gone a bit quiet, watching Aziraphale try to work himself down from near-hysteria.

“Absolutely none at all, I never forget a regular. I-I was afraid, actually, that something very bad might have happened - perhaps it  _ has _ , but it still...oh, it still doesn’t explain why she’s  _ here _ , Crowley! Exactly the same, in 1910!”

If there was a subject that hadn’t been seriously broached in either Heaven or Hell, it was time travel: there were a few angels and demons on the margins trying to get the top brass to really consider pushing humans closer to it, but nobody with any real clout had gotten those proposals. The closest anyone on either side had gotten to pressing the issue was persuading H.G. Wells to write a funny little book about moving backwards and forwards in time, and that was where it would stay for a while as the humans entertained the notion themselves. Had anyone actually moved forward with the idea, Aziraphale certainly would have known - and perhaps, Crowley thought, this meant things had become a little more serious.

“Right, ok…” He bent down to look the girl straight in the eye. “First thing’s first - what are your views on racial segregation?” Shouted Crowley.

“Wha -  _ Crowley! _ ”

“This one’s a dealbreaker, angel, we’d better know right off the bat.”

She intoned: “It makes no sense.”

Before Aziraphale could sigh in relief, Crowley held up a hand to stop him. “Makes no sense meaning…?”

“Why would we treat people differently just for the color of their skin? We’re all human beings.”

Even if Crowley scoffed, Aziraphale couldn’t help but beam through the vivid concern in his face. “Alright, second question - do you remember him?” Crowley pointed at Aziraphale.

“No,” said the girl.

“We never actually spoke with one another. I don’t know if she would, not after this long...I  _ suppose _ .” Aziraphale said, nervously adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

“Fine, one more, then - what’s your name?”

“Elizabeth,” said Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth what, my dear?” The demon rolled his eyes.

“Just Elizabeth.”

“Well, that settles it.” Aziraphale said. “We came looking for Elizabeth, and we found her - whatever that may imply.” He stepped a bit closer, nudging Crowley out of the way. “Now, are you being imprisoned, held hostage, or otherwise forced to stay in this tower?”

“I’ve never been allowed to leave,” she said.

The two shared a brief look, wordlessly debating the interpretation of “never allowed to leave.” “Would you  _ like _ to leave?” Asked Aziraphale.

“Yes.”

Aziraphale immediately prepared to snap her back awake, but Crowley snatched his hand. “You won’t remember seeing my eyes,” he hissed, “and don’t go asking for explanations about who we are and why we’re here and all that. You’ll figure it out.” He snapped, and she blinked as if she had been splashed in the face with a pail of water. True to Crowley’s word, she wasn’t asking questions, but she was looking between the two of them for answers, quite apprehensively.

“Right, do you have anything you’re looking to take with you?” Crowley quickly set to pacing around the room, picking up anything that looked like it might be remotely valuable or sentimental to a young woman.

“...I-I’m sorry?” She asked, still glancing from him to Aziraphale as if she was trying to defy the order she’d been given without the words to do so.

“Oh, catch up, will you? We’re leaving, take anything you need and let’s  _ go _ \- ” Crowley barely had time to finish before Elizabeth tore out of the room, back into the library.

“ _ Songbird _ \- where is he? He-he should be here by now, he...how did you get  _ past _ him?” She was practically dangling out the windowsill by the time they caught up with her, looking out into the sky for something that should have been happening amidst all the very peaceful nothing in the nighttime. Aziraphale ran up the stairs to pull her back off the window, gently leading her away.

“Alright, you just wait here, then…we’ll pick a few things for you, and we’ll be off - ” Before he could guide her to a seat, she wrenched herself away and sprinted to the half-open door, desperately trying to slip through. Aziraphale was searching for something to say, but Crowley carelessly dropped what he’d already taken along and strolled into the corridor after her.

“If you’re worried about the bird,” called Crowley, as Elizabeth was already down the stairs, “he’s not going to be here in any rush.” Looking behind him, he saw Aziraphale hastily picking up the abandoned books and trinkets, fiddling to find a way to hold them all before reluctantly dropping them all back on the ground. “Not wasting any time, are we?”

“Oh, for - follow her, Crowley, don’t let her get too far ahead!” Aziraphale was jogging after her, Crowley picking up the rear with no sense of urgency. They caught up in the room with the camera: Elizabeth had pulled the lever down, and found herself staring into the study she had left only moments ago. It wasn’t something angel or demon hadn’t already figured out, but it felt like the final miserable nail in the coffin - watching her discover that she was on the other side of the glass.

“They were…they were  _ watching _ me?”

“Hope not - looks like it would have been abysmally boring stuff.” Crowley had called the elevator, the sound of the cable  _ humming _ under the silence of the observation chamber. She opened her mouth indignantly, the fear in her eyes igniting into furor, but the  _ ding _ of the lift’s doors opening cut her short. They quietly filed in, uncomfortably avoiding eye contact as the doors slid shut and the elevator began its descent.

“I, ah...I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, have we? You may call me Mr. Fell; my associate here is Mr. Crowley.”

“ _ Mr _ . Crowley?” Asked the demon, sounding more than a little exasperated.

“It’s just the formal way of saying it, at least nowadays.” Aziraphale said, looking between him and Elizabeth in a very “let’s not have a conversation about what the formal way of saying it was two centuries ago” sort of manner.

“Charmed,” murmured Elizabeth, squatting against the wall of the elevator, running her fingers through her hair. Neither of the two seemed very surprised that she was taking it this hard - humans had a tendency to look at things narrowly, because the time they had on earth indeed was very narrow. Attempting to be discreet (he wasn’t), Aziraphale gestured for Crowley to turn away from Elizabeth, facing the sliding door.

“I think it might be best to, ah…find a means of leaving the island directly, rather than going back to the city.”

“I agree,” whispered Crowley. “I’ll keep an eye open.”

“There  _ is _ no way to leave Columbia from the island,” Elizabeth piped up behind them, startling at least one of the two who thought he had kept the conversation private. “You have to go back down the railway.”

“Well, we got up the railway when it was closed, didn’t we?” Asked Crowley, who wasn’t fond of being outnumbered by people who were irritatingly smart. “We’ll manage.”

The elevator  _ dinged  _ once again, and they were back on the ground floor of the tower, beneath the large font of energy - only, the speakers flanking it had gone silent, and the crackling electricity had dropped to a low simmer. “What is that?” Elizabeth asked, but the only answer was a pair of demonic hands on her shoulders steering her away.  _ Questions _ , Crowley thought to himself,  _ over and over again with the questions _ .

_ When were humans ever going to figure out what questions got them, anyways _ ?

Her eyes were all over the chamber: the charts of her height and weight, the things she thought she’d lost during spring cleaning (and, much to her horror, one particularly  _ red _ thing she was certain she’d thrown out years ago with no fanfare), signs with words like “caution” and “dangerous” and most often “specimen” - the same as had been written over the glass peering into her room. This cold, unwelcoming place had  _ always _ been her home, hiding behind pretty walls and mirrors, and Aziraphale wondered, as he watched her put it all together, why it didn’t give her cause to leave faster.

“If we’re lucky - ” and Crowley nodded at Aziraphale (Or was he winking, behind those glasses? It seemed like something he’d do, but Hell if Aziraphale could tell.) “ - we may find a gondola waiting for us outside, ‘round the back. Hopefully, by some  _ miracle _ or other, one of the free-floaters.”

“Right - by  _ some _ miracle.” Call the demon Crowley many things, but subtle didn’t tend to be one of them, at least not on Aziraphale’s end. Even Elizabeth was looking back at him quizzically, when she ought to have been excitedly staring at the exit leading to freedom, drawing ever nearer. “Nearly out, I think.”

Elizabeth gulped, her breath becoming slightly shallow as her hand slowly reached to push open the doors, out to the sky and the trees. “Ah, allow me, my dear - ” Failing to read the room, Aziraphale extended his arm and propped the door open for the other two. “After you.”

“Um,  _ Mister _ Fell?” Crowley asked.

“Whatever is it?”

“Was it your job or mine to see to it that the authorities didn’t follow us here after our fumble in the station?”

“I can’t recall - why do you ask?”

And as he let the door swing shut behind him, he finally saw it, though he really had no excuse to have missed it in the first place: an extensive police blockade, bats at the ready and guns all aimed at the entrance. There were free-roaming gondolas, all right: a couple of them, with automatic turrets trained to the front door.

“ _ Step away from the girl immediately and move forward with your hands above your head! _ ” Someone shouted from behind the sea of weapons.

All three of them went quite pale, though two had no real reason to without actual blood. “So,” whispered Crowley, “shall you work around this one, or shall I?”

“I’m already pushing it as is, Crowley - though I suppose  _ you _ can’t either, with all the hoops you jumped through to get that  _ bird _ out of the way. All we can really do is try and find a path to the gondola.” Aziraphale’s eyes were darting across his periphery, searching for a gap in the barrier to make a break to. This really was quite a big fuss over one teenage girl; besides, the way in hadn’t even been locked.

“ _ Hands up, now! _ ”

Elizabeth tapped Crowley on the arm, trying to remain as still as possible. “Don’t move - I think I may have an idea.”

Of all the demons, Crowley was always the one who most agreed  _ tried _ to be clever: an embellishment to most wicked works, when all you really needed to do was nudge people into making the wrong choices and let them give themselves to the devil. He was a schemer more than anything, and Hell took note - even though any cleverness really shone through in his tendency to take credit for humanity’s own sinful errors. Maybe it was that very tendency that sifted what Elizabeth said around in his brain like wet grapes in a strainer, and so he did not whisper back to Elizabeth, or even listen to what she had to say next; he leaned over towards Aziraphale instead, eyes on the barrels trained to their position. “I need you,” said Crowley, “to stand behind me and wrap your arms around my waist as soon as I start moving.”

“Start - Crowley, what are you thinking?”

“ _ You have until the count of three before we come over there ourselves, gentlemen! One… _ ”

“Wait, no, I said _don’t_ _move_ \- ”

“ _ Two… _ ”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ make a run for it, Crowley, don’t even consider - !”

And before the officers could advance on  _ three _ , swinging their bats, Crowley had grabbed Elizabeth by the shoulders and hoisted her up in front of him like a plank of wood: Aziraphale, now the odd man out, instinctively followed Crowley’s advice and ducked behind him, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s torso (and now Elizabeth’s waist as well).

“Aziraphale, watch behind me and tell me where I’m going - fire and you hit the girl!” Crowley shouted, feeling quite like a gangster from an old black and white movie - or he would have, had gangsters or movies featuring them been invented yet. He’d have to get on that.

“What are you  _ doing?! _ ” Elizabeth screamed, though the guns lowered as soon as she was shielding his chest.

“Ah...y-you’ll want to start walking backwards, now. Towards the right.” Aziraphale stammered, steering the cluster back awkwardly. “Turn a bit in the other direction, you’ve got a blind spot at about three o’clock.”

“Three o’clock? What are you, a sailor?”

“That depends: are you a dinghy or an ocean liner?” They were inching along the base of the tower now, looking like a rather silly Crowley Sandwich made up with two incredulous slices of bread.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what are you  _ talking _ about?” Shouted Elizabeth, watching the authorities congregate. The gondolas were pulling away, circling the statue as the three finally slowed for a moment beneath the archangel Columbia’s right hand wing.

“I really am  _ dreadfully _ sorry,” moaned the actual angel below, while leading them into its shadow. “This isn’t at all what I thought we - oh, Crowley, the gondola’s straight on, keep moving exactly as you are - at all how I thought we would be escorting you out.”

“That makes two of us.” She said. “I thought I  _ told _ you I had a  _ plan _ .”

“You didn’t elaborate in time. Alright, I’m setting you down for a moment, but stay right here in front of me in case - ” Crowley said, quickly looking both ways for anyone sneaking up on them.

“ - in case you need a human  _ shield _ again?” She brushed off her skirt, looking quite put out.

“Personally, I don’t know what would have worked better. Besides, nobody got shot.” She ought to have counted herself lucky - angels and demons didn’t go through this much work for just anybody. If she  _ had _ gotten shot, it could have just narrowly missed any vital organs, anyhow. Really, the only reason she was being so cranky was because she didn’t know that herself, he figured.

“I’m not so sure about flying down anymore, actually. They certainly won’t fire on us, but that doesn’t mean they won’t follow us.” Aziraphale scanned the skies, watching the ships float above them patiently.

What Crowley would have said next was probably along the lines of, “You’re too paranoid, angel, they wouldn’t let anyone figure out where the city was after going through all the trouble of hiding it,” or another characteristically flippant retort of the same kind.

What he actually said was, “ _ Aziraphale! _ ” because something large and metallic had ripped the angel off his waist and flung him towards the end of the island, which led straight to a plummeting free-fall back down to Earth.


End file.
